


Scar Tissue

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-war, Harry and Draco find the unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

The last person Harry expected to see walking the halls of the Ministry, as he went to collect coffee, was Draco.

"Malfoy?" Harry said, pausing mid-stride to gape at the wizard who had walked brusquely past him only a moment ago.

"Malfoy, is that you?" Harry watched as the man stopped; he watched as his back expanded and then fell with the intake of breath and the subsequent expulsion of a deep, weary sigh.

"Potter," Draco said, with a cursory glance back over his shoulder, white-blonde hair falling across his pale, somewhat furrowed, brow. Draco brushed a few errant strands of hair from his eyes, revealing wan orbs: cold, grey, and –

 _Tired_ , Harry thought: _So tired_.

"What're you doing here?" Harry asked as Draco made to move off down the hall. He caught Draco up, closing the space of years. "I thought you were – " Harry added, with an indiscriminate wave of his hand to indicate his meaning.

"I was," Draco replied.

"So what are you –? "

Draco looked away; he cleared his throat.

But still his voice was no more than a whisper. "The treatment," he said, finally.

"Oh," Harry mouthed silently; and before he was able to ask Draco more fully what it was that he meant, he had turned on his heel and departed, leaving Harry standing alone in the whirl of his robes.

___

"What were you doing, mate?" Ron asked, without looking up from the papers scattered all over his desk. "Picking the beans yourself?"

"Hmm?" Harry answered absently, closing the door of the cramped, cluttered office he shared with his best mate.

"The coffee, Harry," Ron prodded, rising from his seat. Moving out from behind his desk, he relieved Harry of one of the coffee mugs in his hands.

"Oh, right. The beans," Harry said, "Yeah." He offered Ron a somewhat vacant smile before lifting his own mug to his lips and taking a sip, before perching himself on the edge of his desk.

"What's up with you?" Ron asked, taking his seat.

"I just ran into Draco Malfoy in the hall."

"Oh yeah?" Ron said, disinterestedly.

Harry blinked in confusion, dumbfounded by Ron's response – or, rather, the lack thereof. "I'm sorry," Harry said, "Am I boring you, Ron? It's just – I thought this was news."

"It was," Ron shrugged, "Weeks ago."

"Weeks ago?"

"Yeah."

"But I thought he was overseas ... Prague, wasn't it?"

Ron nodded. "He was. He has been, for years. Pretty much since the war."

"Then what's he doing here now?"

Ron sipped his coffee. "Ministry mandate," he said. "Given Malfoy's role in ... things, he was forced to return and undergo – "

"Treatment," Harry said, finishing Ron's sentence.

"Exactly."

"How do you know all this?"

Ron paused; Harry watched as he swallowed. "Hermione told me," Ron said eventually.

"Oh." Harry stiffened. "And since when are you talking to Hermione?" he asked.

"Since I realised there's nothing I can do about it," Ron replied. "Since I realised that there's nothing _we_ can do about it."

Harry said nothing. Instead of responding, he drained his mug, leaving only a trail of meandering coffee grounds on against the white porcelain.

"How is she?" Harry asked finally.

"Hermione?"

He nodded.

"Fine," Ron said. "Good, actually. They both are. I mean, Hermione's got her back up about the whole treatment situation – she still can't believe Shacklebolt allowed it to pass – but that's nothing new. And Ginny – well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, a little mournfully.

___

The remainder of the day passed without incident, and, Harry thought, it was just as well. Since Ron had caught him up on recent events, Harry had been oddly ... _distracted_. He had thought, initially, it had been talk of Ginny and Hermione, but as the day progressed, and afternoon became evening he realised it had not been that at all.

"You coming?" Ron asked. He was standing by the door, slipping into his coat. "Harry?"

"Hmm? What?"

"Are you coming – to the pub?"

"Ohh, right." Harry looked about him. He was looking, he realised, for something that would provide an excuse. He was not really up to the pub tonight.

"Harry," Ron said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "It's now or never, mate – yes, or no?"

"Ah, no. I won't. Not tonight, anyway. Feeling a bit – "

But Harry never got to state what it was that he was feeling: having received his answer, Ron gave Harry a quick wave and departed the office for the evening.

___

Despite his refusal of Ron's offer, the pub – or, rather, _a_ pub – was where Harry found himself heading after leaving work. Having started for home, his feet seemed to have other ideas, and Harry wound up walking the cold, quiet streets of an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Before long, he was standing beneath squeaky, swinging sign. Golden light and warm voices spilled out into the street.

He decided to go in.

Making his way toward the bar to order, Harry stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a familiar shock of white-blonde hair at the end of the bar.

"Malfoy?" Harry found himself asking in surprise for the second time that day.

Hearing his voice called, Draco turned his head; Harry moved through the after-work crowd and approached.

Draco said nothing; he merely looked at Harry, and then down at the drink in his hands. He lifted it to his mouth; he drank deeply. Swallowing, he pushed his bar stool back just as Harry sidled up next to him. Without a word, he shoved past Harry.

"Malfoy!" Harry persisted, agitation causing his voice to rise.

"What, Potter?" Draco called out across the pub; across the chatter and relaxed laughter of its patrons.

Harry went after Draco. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Draco's shoulder; Draco shirked from Harry's touch.

"What?" he spat.

"I thought ..." Harry paused, uncertain.

"Thought what, Potter?"

"Thought – maybe I could buy you a drink."

Draco laughed, harsh, and unforgiving.

"You're kidding, aren't you?" he said incredulously.

"No," Harry said, taken aback by Draco's attitude. He wasn't sure why he was – well, offended, he supposed would be the best way to describe it – this was Draco Malfoy, after all.

"No," Harry repeated, "I'm not. Just – come and have a drink with me, would you, Malfoy?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said and made his way back to the bar. "One drink."

Harry gesturedto the barman for two drinks and two tumblers of Firewhisky were set down before him and Draco promptly.

"Thanks, mate," Harry said.

"What did you want, Potter?" Draco said curtly, before taking a drink.

"Jesus, Malfoy," Harry said, "It's been _years_ – aren't we past this?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Are we?"

"I'd like to bloody think so."

"I'm sure you would," Draco said bitterly.

"What's that mean?" Harry said; he felt the need to defend himself, but he didn't know why.

Draco snorted; the derision was plain on his face.

"Malfoy?" Harry persisted.

"Forget it, Potter," Draco said with a shake of his head, blonde hair falling across his eyes once more. He downed the remainder of his drink and, slamming the glass back down on the bar, rose from his seat and left.

___

Harry breathed deeply as he knocked on the door of Hermione's office.

"Who is it?" she called.

"It's Harry." Harry waited; he listened to the hurried shuffle of Hermione on the other side of door; he heard the _click_ as she turned the handle.

"Harry!" she said, smiling. "Come in."

"Thanks, Hermione."

"What – I mean I wasn't expecting – or – " Hermione stammered, obviously unsure what to say. Harry offered a gentle smile and took her hand gently in his.

"It's alright, Hermione."

"It is?"

"Well, yeah. It wasn't – "

Hermione blushed. She looked away.

"But it is now. I'd just like for things – "

"To be like they were?" Hermione said, before correcting herself. "Well, perhaps not _exactly_ like they were, but – "

"I know what you mean, Hermione," Harry said. "And yes, like they were before. Or – close enough to it, anyway."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, happily, pulling her friend into a warm embrace.

"Well," Harry said as he and Hermione extricated themselves from one another's arms. "I've actually got a bit of a favour to ask of you, Hermione."

"Alright, go on."

"What do you know about the – ah, the treatment programme?"

Harry watched as the mere mention of the latest Ministry safeguard against a future dark wizard uprising affected Hermione. She pursed her lips, and her cheeks flushed red.

"Ugh," she said, taking a seat and gesturing to Harry that he should do the same. "Don't get me started. That programme is an absolute travesty. I can't believe it's actually gone through. _What_ the Minister was thinking when he allowed the treatment programme to pass, I'll never know."

Harry sighed. "I s'pose he was thinking we don't want another situation like the last one."

"Yes," Hermione conceded, though she was growing more and more animated by the moment. "And I can understand that – I can – but to do _this_ ... " Hermione shook her head. "But why do you ask, Harry? It's not _exactly_ your field."

Harry took a deep breath. He was, he realised, nervous. "I ran into Draco Malfoy a couple of days ago. Here. He was here for – well, you know."

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said dejectedly. “It's – I mean, I understand he needs to be reprimanded, but this treatment is just -”

“What exactly _is_ , it Hermione?” Harry interjected. “I'm still not sure that I understand what it is that they – well, how it is that – it works.”

Hermione sighed. “Not many people do, unfortunately. Perhaps if they did, they'd think twice about having supported such measures.” As Hermione spoke, she rummaged through her drawers.

“Ah-ha,” she said before setting out the documents for which she had been searching on her desk. She pushed them towards Harry. “These provide a more detailed overview of what's going on with the treatment.”

Harry thumbed the rough edges of the parchment.

“You can take that, if you like,” Hermione said. “To read up on things.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, collecting the documents. Getting to his feet, he made for the door. There, he paused and, looking over his shoulder, he said, “It's good to see you again, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled. “It's good to see you, too, Harry.”

With a congenial wave, Harry bid Hermione goodbye and returned to his office. It was, unusually, empty.

 _Ron must be out on an assignment,_ Harry thought. Taking advantage of the quiet and lack of distractions, he settled in at his desk and spent the remainder of the day poring over the papers Hermione had given him.

___

 _As a part of the Ministry of Magic's commitment to the preservation of peace, former followers of Voldemort will soon undergo a series of treatments which combine Muggle medical knowledge and magical healing to alter the brain chemistry of the limbic system, which has been strongly linked to aggression and violence. In doing so, the Ministry hopes to minimise any possible course of resurgence in the magical community, and the prevention of future conflict._

___

It was nearly time to clock off when Ron returned.

"Where've you been?" Harry asked, without looking up.

"Nuisance call," Ron replied curtly. "What's that you've got there?"

Harry looked up; he leaned back in his chair. "Just some papers from Hermione."

Ron smirked. "Since when are you talking to Hermione?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ha-ha," Harry said. "I saw her this morning."

"And?"

Harry shrugged. He fidgeted with the parchment, straightening the papers in front of him. "It was fine," he said. "Good, actually. I asked her about the treatment."

"What about it?"

"It's – Jesus, it's pretty full-on, mate. What they doing down there."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's what they deserve." Ron snorted.

"Do you even know what they actually _do_ to them? His former followers, sympathisers, whatever?" Harry asked in earnest.

Ron looked intently at Harry; clear blue eyes flickered in confusion from beneath his furrowed brow. "I don't need to bloody know what they do," Ron said sharply, "I know what they did. And I know they could do it again, Harry. And I know that if this treatment stops that from happening, then that's bloody good enough for me."

Harry blinked a few times in quick succession. "You can't be serious, Ron."

Ron scoffed. "Can't I?"

"No, you can't," Harry said, rising from his chair. "This is – they go _into_ their heads, Ron. Open them up and go in and – Merlin's sake, they shouldn't be able to do that. There have to be limits and – "

"Limits, Harry?" Ron raised his voice. His cheeks were flushed pink in agitation. "And what limits were there when that bloody animal attacked Bill? Or when we were locked up in Malfoy Manor? Or when they took my fucking brother from me? What about that, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but found that he couldn't; the words simply wouldn't form in his mind, let alone on his tongue. It had been years since the worst days of the war, but the wounds still hadn't healed and, looking at the expression on Ron's face, Harry wondered if they ever truly would.

"That's what I thought," Ron said quietly, before slipping into his coat and out of the office into the evening.

___

Shortly after Ron's departure Harry, too, left for home. Having settled on the sofa, Harry resumed reading the treatment papers but found he was unable to concentrate – he could not shake the events of his argument with Ron from his mind. The words that each of them had spoken seemed to echo inside his head, and the reverberations of things too harshly said could not be denied. Frustrated, Harry stepped out into the night.

He headed for the pub.

___

The pub was quiet; patrons were scattered about the room, and a few lonely figures sat hunched over the bar. It was not as distracting as Harry would have liked, but it would provide distraction enough. Satisfied, Harry took a seat at the counter and ordered a Firewhisky. Sipping his drink, he took out the information on the Ministry's treatment programme for former Death Eaters. Placing his drink down, Harry turned the page he was reading – as he did, he felt an awkward presence at his side.

“You following me, Potter?” Draco asked coldly.

Harry turned. “Malfoy,” he said.

“Is that it?” Draco asked as he gestured to the barman, ordering a drink.

“Is there more?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “I don't know.”

“That's what I thought,” Harry said. He placed his glass down on the counter and ordered another drink.

“What are you reading there, Potter?” Draco nodded, indicating the papers.

“It's nothing,” Harry said quickly, moving to collect the papers and push them to one side.

“It doesn't look like nothing.”

Suddenly, Harry felt the heat rise in his neck and cheeks; he was blushing.

“C'mon, Potter,” Draco said, “What is it?”

“It's just some Ministry stuff. A new case. It's nothing, really. It's -”

Harry was stammering. After years of not speaking to Draco, he suddenly found that his tongue couldn't keep up with the things he wanted to say. Or didn't want to say. Or maybe he just didn't know what to say. Whatever it was, it distracted him for long enough that Draco reached across Harry and snatched up a few stray pages.

“Malfoy, don't –” Harry said, scrambling to take the papers back, but Draco was too quick. He slid off the barstool and took a few steps back from Harry. Harry could only watch as Draco's eyes scanned the pages in his hands.

“Potter, what is – what are you –?”

“I just –“

“You just what?” Draco's voice was shaky. His fingers trembled as he thrust the papers back towards Harry.

“I just – after seeing you at the Ministry last week I just wanted to know what – what the treatment actually was. I didn't know. I only wanted to know.”

“What on earth for, Potter?” Draco said hoarsely. “What on earth for?”

Harry sighed. “I don't know, Malfoy. I don't know. What I do know, though, is that you don't deserve this.”

Draco gaped at Harry. “What?”

“You don't deserve this; the treatment. At least, I don't think you do.”

Draco swallowed. “Well,” he said, “Maybe that's the difference between us now, Potter. Because maybe – maybe I think that I do. Maybe I do deserve it.”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “No,” he said. “No.”

Draco sighed. “Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I don't really know much about anything any more, Potter. But I'll tell you what I do know.”

“Oh yeah, what's that?” Harry asked.

“I know that you're going to let me buy you that next drink.”

Harry could, to his surprise, only smile; and without another word, he and Draco took their seats at the bar and ordered the next round.

___

Innumerable rounds later, Harry and Draco found themselves confronted by the barman.

“Closing time, gentlemen,” he said.

“Alright,” Draco said. “I guess we're off, then.”

“Maybe you are,” Harry quipped.

“What are you – what does that even mean, Potter?” Draco said with a laugh.

“I'm … not really sure, Malfoy.” Harry offered a lopsided smile as he slid down off his stool and stumbled to the door.

A few minutes later, he and Draco were standing out in the street and, curiously, Harry found he was not quite ready to head home.

“Where are you off to now?”

“Home, I suppose, Potter. Well, not _home_ exactly. I've got a room at The Leaky for the time being, so -”

“You're not going to The Leaky tonight,” Harry said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come back to mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah. Why not? I'm sure I can scrounge up a bottle of Ogden's Old at my place. If you think you can stand me for another hour or two.”

“Well, that's touch-and-go isn't it, Potter?” Draco asked. “You are pretty insufferable, after all.”

“You're one to talk, Malfoy,” Harry retorted.

“Still,” Draco added, “I suppose we could give it a go. Wouldn't want that bottle of Ogden's to go to waste.”

___

Harry wasn't sure when it happened, but a trip back to his flat, a shared bottle of Firewhisky and some verbal sparring later, early evening had become early morning and he was sitting, sunk low in an armchair and Draco was sprawled across the couch.

“I think that's about it for me,” Harry said with a groan. “I'm headed for bed.”

Draco nodded. “Alright. I'll get out of your hair.”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “You can stay here. Crash on the couch.”

“Are you sure?” Draco said.

“Yeah. Go on. I'll just grab you a blanket.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco said. “For, you know –”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I know.”

Harry ducked out of the lounge momentarily. When he returned, arms laden with spare blankets, Draco was tugging his shirt off over his head and Harry – Harry was shocked by what he saw.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Harry said, putting the blankets to one side. “Your back. Those scars. How did you –?”

Draco cleared his throat to speak, but didn't. He bowed his head.

“Malfoy?”

“You don't remember, Potter?”

“Remember what?”

“Sixth year.”

“Sixth – oh, Christ, Malfoy,” Harry said, horrified by the wave of realisation that swept over him.

Draco shrugged, white-blonde hair falling over his slender shoulders.

“It's alright, Potter. It was a long time ago.”

“But the scars they're – _everywhere_.” Harry crossed the room. Standing beside Draco, he lifted his hand and brushed a finger across the shirred, pearlescent skin of Draco's stomach.

“Potter, what are you –?”

Despite Draco's evident shock, he did not back away from Harry; he did not shirk from the warmth of Harry's fingertips, the softness of his touch. Harry shifted his hand, sliding fingers over Draco's hip bone so that he was cupping the curves of Draco's body in the palm of his hand. He looked up into Draco's eyes and as he did, Draco looked away; he backed away.

“Listen, Potter,” he said breathlessly, “I – I think I'll go. But – thanks.”

Draco collected his shirt and coat and beat a hasty retreat, disappearing from Harry's flat and into the harsh grey light of the early dawn.

___

“Harry,” Ron said in greeting the next morning as he stepped into the office.

“Hey,” Harry replied.

“Jesus,” Ron said, “You look like hell, mate.”

“Yeah. I – had a few drinks last night.”

“A few too many, it looks like,” Ron said as he took a seat of his desk across from Harry's.

Harry smiled wanly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Listen, Harry,” Ron started, “About yesterday – I mean, I know I tend to get a bit fired up about these things and I just –”

“Ron,” Harry raised a hand, “It's fine, really. And let's face it – you weren't arguing alone, so –”

“So, we're good then?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, we're good.”

“Alright.” Ron smiled.

“Do you know if Hermione's in the office today?”

“She should be,” Ron said. “It is Hermione we're talking about, after all.”

___

Hermione wasn't in her office when Harry arrived. He was headed back to his own when he ran into her in the elevator.

“Hermione,” he said, “I was just at your office. I needed to ask you about something.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “Now seems as good a time as any.”

“Right. You're right. Um, Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“You know those treatment programmes?”

“Yes ...”

“You wouldn't happen to know when Malfoy's due for his next procedure, would you?”

“Not off the top of my head, no. But I'm sure I can find out for you.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

“If you don't mind me asking though, Harry –”

“Why do I want to know?” Harry asked, finishing Hermione's thought.

Hermione nodded.

“Well,” Harry began, “It's – it's a bit tricky. But I just – I just need to talk to him about something.”

“Since when do you and Malfoy talk, Harry?” Hermione joked.

“Beats me, Hermione,” Harry muttered. “Beats me.”

___

Having learned from Hermione that Draco was scheduled for his next appointment that afternoon, Harry made his excuses to Ron after lunch and headed for the treatment centre and there, Harry waited.

___

“Malfoy,” Harry called as he saw the familiar figure of Draco exit a nearby room.

“What is it, Potter?” Draco said, exasperated.

“I wanted to talk to you. About last night.” Harry stood before Draco, fidgeting.

“It's fine, Potter. Really,” Draco said. He made to walk away – this time, Harry was too quick for him, and as he moved, Harry caught him by the wrist.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco asked.

Harry searched his face, his tired, grey eyes, as though by doing so he would somehow find the answer. “I don't know, Malfoy.”

“Then let me go.”

Harry tightened his grip on Draco's wrist.

“Potter, please. I don't need your pity. I don't want it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night. When you looked up at me. Your eyes ...” Draco trailed off, his pale features tinged, once more, with shades of pink.

“It wasn't pity,” Harry said. His voice was quiet, so quiet. He looked about the corridor and ducked into an empty room, still clinging to Draco's arm.

“Potter, would you just –?” Draco protested but Harry didn't listen; he released his grip on Draco's arm and thrust him back into the room, closing the door behind them.

“It wasn't pity, Malfoy,” Harry repeated.

“Sure, Potter,” Draco said. He headed for the door.

“It wasn't, I swear.”

“Then what was it, Potter?” Draco folded his arms across his chest. “What was it?”

Harry breathed deeply. In truth, he didn't know what it was; he only knew what it wasn't. It wasn't pity or contempt or anything like what he and Draco had experienced before.

“I don't know, Malfoy,” Harry said, moving close to Draco. “I feel like I don't know much any more,” he whispered. Draco, in return, smiled.

“Nothing new there, then, is there Potter?” Draco smirked, though not, Harry noticed, unkindly.

“No, I suppose not,” Harry breathed and, as he did, he moved closer still to Draco. He inhaled, and when he breathed out, his abdomen brushed Draco's.

“Potter ...” Draco said uncertainly.

“Malfoy,” Harry said. He raised a hand to Draco's face and ran the mount of his thumb over Draco's pronounced jaw line where the skin was most stretched over the bone, the place where it was almost sheer.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Harry could feel Draco's breath caress his cheek as he spoke, hot and sweet.

“I don't know, Malfoy,” Harry said. He leaned in, and in a moment that seemed at once less than a heartbeat and longer than a lifetime, Harry brushed his lips against Draco's.

“I don't know, Malfoy,” Harry repeated, as he pulled back. “But I'll tell you what I do know. I'd really like to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for H/D Smoochfest 2010.


End file.
